Warring by Numbers
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: First War, Second War, Third War. No conflict had since earned the name of Fourth War. Maybe they had simply stopped counting. Maybe neverending war was all that Azeroth would ever know...


**Warring by Numbers**

His armour reeked of blood.

Sweat as well, but it was the smell of blood that entered his nostrils more readily. That sickly sweet, coppery smell – not the most pungent of odours, but among the most disturbing. That primal instinct that every race shared, that something was wrong. Some of it belonged to his own men, most of it belonged to those who had been forced to become his enemies. Of course, he was not so naive to think that there weren't those among the Horde who welcomed the war that Sylvanas Windrunner had led them into, but then, he had to believe…hope…that they were in the minority. Did that make him naive though, he wondered? To temper his hope?

Anduin Wrynn wasn't sure. He just knew that his armour reeked of blood. That the blood of mortals smelt the same no matter who spilt it. That his servants couldn't get it off him fast enough. He sat down on a chair in the command tent and let them start to remove the greaves.

"Water," he grunted.

One of the servants handed him a waterskin. He was young, Anduin noticed. Younger even than him. The thought remained on his mind as he sipped the clear, flavourless liquid.

"Wine," he said.

The servants obliged, and in an instant, he had another waterskin in his gloved hand. The wine did less to quench his first, but did more to calm his mind. He knew there were better ways to calm his nerves, knew that before the morrow, he would spend his time in prayer and thanks to the Light. But the wine had the benefit of being a short-term solution.

"Thank you," Anduin said, as the second greave was removed. "You may take your leave."

The servants bowed, murmured, and obliged, leaving their king to take another sip.

 _It's too sweet._

He'd never been one for wine. Stormwind had never been one for viticulture given its cooler climate. But he knew his tastes. The water was flavourless, the wine was too sweet. Not the greatest dilemma he'd ever faced, and certainly there'd be worse dilemmas up ahead, but…

 _Damn it._

He took another sip. How many more places were there to grow wine on this continent anyway? Lordaeron, with its balmy summers, had always been a hub of viticulture, but that was then. This was now. Him, Anduin I Wrynn, the Young Wolf, King of Stormwind, High King of the Alliance, far from his throne, sitting among the ruins of the greatest kingdom mankind had ever constructed bar Arathor of old. An admission that might raise some eyebrows in his own court, but he knew the truth. That Stormwind was the hub of the Alliance now didn't change the fact that Lordaeron had been its heart in days of old.

He took another sip…right as the guards outside the command tent parted their spears and allowed visitors to walk in. He froze, the waterskin caught in his mouth, as Genn Greymane and Alleria Windrunner walked into the tent.

"Is that wine?" Genn of them asked.

He lowered the waterskin, trying not to give the sense of being a child caught in the act.

"About time," Genn continued. "Water and milk…well, they aren't the drinks of kings."

"I'd like to think that the sovereignty of my crown doesn't rest on what I drink," Anduin said.

"You might be surprised," Genn murmured, before forcing a smile. "But I doubt we have to worry about that. Lordaeron is ours, and your leadership made it happen."

 _Liar,_ Anduin reflected. He looked at Alleria, who had not only remained silent, but looked like her mind was elsewhere as well. A darkness was in her eyes, even as they shone the colour of the sky. "Where's Jaina?"

"On the field," Alleria said. "Her presence does the hearts of our forces good." Like Genn, she smiled, though it was slightly less forced. "I doubt anyone will forget her stunt with the ship."

Anduin nodded and took a seat at the table in the centre of the tent. History might remember him as the one who had led the forces of the Alliance to reclaim Lordaeron, but it had been Jaina Proudmoore who had swung the tide of battle. He hadn't imagined that Sylvanas would use the blight, but then, he hadn't imagined that it would be under his reign that Teldrassil would be burnt to the ground. That once again, a king of Stormwind would be leading a war against the Horde. As his father had done, and his father before him. And that said nothing in regards to him being the king that had let the Banshee Queen slip through his fingers.

"If I may take my leave," Alleria said.

Anduin nodded. The kings of Stormwind and Gilneas watched her leave. Genn had his human form, but his gaze was that of the wolf. The being that would be loyal to a fault, but would not hesitate from tearing into the throats of his enemies if the need arose.

"If I may-"

"No," Anduin said. He gestured towards the table. "Sit."

The worgen did so, drawing up a chair with exaggerated motion, and taking just as much time to sit in it. The two men's gazes met. Two kings whose eyes were above a map of this area of Lordaeron. Figurines representing the Alliance were clustered around the city. The figurines representing the Horde had long since been removed.

"Anduin," Genn began. "If this has to do with-"

"No," he said. "It doesn't." He paused, reflecting on the lie. "Actually it does. And I owe you apologies."

Genn raised an eyebrow.

"You aren't some dog to be muzzled," Anduin said. "And in hindsight, if Sylvanas Windrunner was lying in the same place where Terenas Menethil had…well, if that had ended this war here and now, then I wouldn't complain."

"It would do your heart little good," Genn said.

"It would," Anduin conceded. "But I can bear a damaged heart if it means that more hearts still beat."

"And what of those whose hearts don't?"

Anduin sighed, closing his eyes. "We treat them with the rites of-"

"Actually, I was talking about the Forsaken."

Anduin opened his eyes again. "Why the Forsaken?" he asked slowly. "Surely we have other prisoners?"

"We do," Genn said. "And they'll make useful prisoners of war. But…"

"But?"

"But the endgame of this war is where Lordaeron is returned to the living. So the Forsaken will be without a homeland."

Anduin began tapping his fingers on the table – slowly and steadily, like the march of a drum leading men to war. "Are you suggesting…"

Genn didn't say anything.

"No," said Anduin. "Not today. Not ever. Even discounting Calia and Alonsus, even discounting the chance that some Forsaken hold allegiance to Lordaeron above all else, I won't go down the same road as the Banshee Queen." He paused. "I won't repeat Teldrassil."

"That is your prerogative," Genn said. "But as someone who's waged war before, you may find the high road the harder route, even if the view is better."

 _Waged war,_ Anduin reflected. _That wasn't what my father told me._

The words were unfair, and therefore, he didn't utter them. Genn was an ally, and for all their differences, a friend. Perhaps, sad as it was, one of the closest friends he had left in this world. And yet for all that friendship, he knew that Genn Greymane had walked away from the Alliance once before. Had kept his people behind its walls in the Third War, and had been loath to commit his forces in the Second. There was a chance, however slight, that Genn Greymane might someday do the same again.

It was a dark path of thought, which made Anduin grateful to see a footman walk in. His gratitude diminished when she handed him a piece of parchment. And seeing what was written on it, his gratitude completely evaporated. Reality was reality, that didn't mean he had to be pleased with it.

"What is it?" Genn asked.

Anduin pushed the scroll towards him. "Casualty report."

"And?"

"1,608 dead. 3,069 injured." Anduin sighed. "The first number will have risen before the sun sets."

"Over half our forces." Genn took the parchment and went over it. "Still, it could have been worse." Anduin opened his mouth, but Genn kept talking. "The attack could have failed. You could be dead. Whatever regrets you have, quash them Anduin. They won't do you any good now."

Anduin said nothing. Regardless of whether Genn knew it or not, the worgen's request was impossible. He'd had regrets ever since the Gathering and Calia's death. Teldrassil, Lordaeron…regret kept piling up. Just like the numbers of dead and injured.

"Besides," Genn continued. "In a war of numbers, we have the advantage over the Horde. And as tragic as the loss of Teldrassil was, Sylvanas has lost her own seat of power, in a war that she started." He smiled, and it actually looked genuine. "The Horde has had more warchiefs than I have children. I doubt it will be long before they look to replace her."

Anduin still remained silent. None of Genn's words were false, but they brought cold comfort. War, reduced to numbers. Number of living, number of dead. Sylvanas had shown herself willing to sacrifice her own forces through the use of the blight. In a pure numbers game, the Alliance did have the advantage, but there were ways to offset that. The Burning Legion had possessed numerical superiority as well, that hadn't prevented them from being thwarted by this world three times.

"Anyway," Genn said, getting to his feet. "I suggest we postpone this conversation. The day is old, and-"

"Why was there never a Fourth War?"

The question came out of nowhere. Or at least, Anduin could tell that it came out of nowhere for Genn, who just stood there, perplexed. But for him, it was a question that had been at the back of his mind for years. Far more so in recent days, more than ever in recent hours.

"My king?" Genn asked.

"Why was there never a Fourth War?" Anduin repeated.

"I don't understand."

"First War, Second War, Third War," the Young Wolf said. "All conflicts within your own lifetime. The invasion of Stormwind, the invasion of the kingdoms of the north, the Burning Legion's invasion of the entire planet." He leant back in his chair. "Why did no conflict after that earn the moniker of Fourth War though? Outland, Northrend, Pandaria, Draenor, Azeroth to Argus…" He sighed. "All of those conflicts have names. None bear the number four."

"And?" Genn said, looking (and sounding) agitated. "What of it?"

Anduin could tell that this wasn't a conversation Genn was interested in having, so he chose his words carefully. "I guess, being here, retaking Lordaeron…that's one legacy of the Third War that we've corrected. I suppose there may be more in this…Battle for Azeroth."

Genn snorted.

"What?" Anduin asked.

"I have little respect for those who name a war before it's done," he said. "War is war. You can give it names, you can write about it, hell, you can put on a play at the theatre for all I care. Get the women weeping and the men bowing. But war is war. Names don't matter."

"Maybe not," Anduin murmured, reflecting on the insight Genn had given him, even without intending it. Maybe the reason there was never a Fourth War was…well, war was war. War that had been constant in this world for as long as he could remember. Maybe, at some point, the people of this world just stopped counting.

"I take my leave," Genn said.

Anduin nodded, taking another sip of the wine. It still tasted terrible.

Not too sweet.

Now, like victory, it was too bitter.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _So, like, if_ Warcraft IV _is ever made (fat chance, but one can hope), will its conflict be called the "Fourth War?" I ask because it seems like every conflict since the events of_ Reign of Chaos _has avoided being numbered. I mean, come on people of Azeroth, "four" isn't even in double digits!_

 _Anyway, drabbled this up._


End file.
